


Glaze

by Exxact



Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Barebacking, Creampie, First Creampie, First Time Bottoming, Fluff and Smut, Food Play, M/M, Penetrative Sex, Set Around 30 BBY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-17 22:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15471048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exxact/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: “I’ve always liked your appetite,” Orson says, nudging Galen’s thigh with his bare foot under the table.  “But we really need to cure your aversion to dessert.”Galen shakes his head, swallowing the last of his blue milk.  “Both the brandy and the fried dough were terrible, Orson.  Impressively so.”Orson, predictably, leans across the table and pouts.  “Try just the cream?”Galen and Orson indulge while on Coruscant.





	Glaze

  
The dip of Coruscant Prime beneath the Applied Science Complex’s wall is what wakes Galen, the last bright light of day cutting a sharp angle across his eyes. Galen groans, deciding that he’ll never grow used to waking to the clamor of sounds endemic to Coruscant at any hour. But, he thinks with a smile, when accompanied by the soft noises of Orson beside him, he doesn’t mind them nearly as much as he usually does.

 

“Orson,” he tries gently, stroking the mop of brown-blonde hair, “let’s get cleaned up.”

 

But Orson remains prone, half-curled against Galen’s chest, his face buried in his pillow. His breathing is even with sleep, though the color in his cheeks is as enticing now as it had been when he’d rushed off the shuttle from Brentaal and into Galen’s arms this morning.

 

“Gonna have to remind you of what you left behind on that rock,” he’d murmured, his lips brushing against the edge of Galen’s earlobe. Before he could even think to hurry them into motion for decency’s sake, Orson had already raced ahead, laughing when he’d caused a group of Chadra-Fan to scatter with indignant squeaks.

 

“Orson, c’mon.”

 

“Turn off the sun,” Orson finally moans, thwarted by Galen when he tries to throw the pillow against the viewport.

 

“We should be up for dinner anyways,” Galen murmurs, the scent of their prior arousal in the growing darkness of the room both sour and comforting. “Do you want to go the the cafeteria and—“

 

“I want fried dough,” Orson replies instantly, pursing his lips. “Fried dough and Corellian sugar brandy. Arcas never shuts up about the stuff.”

 

Galen’s eyes roll back. Death and Arcas Ilhe being a whiny bastard—the two certainties in life.

 

“Fine, but we’ll have to order in. I’m not driving the speeder in circles at this time of night to find a shop. Or,” he adds when Orson tries to interrupt him, “letting you drive me to get it.”

  
  
The dent in his monthly budget is more than worth it for the excitement that spreads across Orson’s face. “I’ve never gotten delivery before!”

 

Galen shakes his head. “Me neither. Let me see if I saved one of the service pamphlets they gave us during orientation. And we need actual food for dinner, too—do you mind gorba melts and rice?”

 

Orson’s grin grows mischievous. “Not if that’s what you eat to look as good as you do.”

 

Galen closes his eyes, pulling Orson against him for a soft, slow kiss. Orson’s lines have always been as cheap as they come, but Galen knows that the meaning behind them is genuine.

 

“Being out of the Academy suits you,” Orson purrs, straddling Galen. “Meat on your bones and a little fire in your belly.”

 

Despite himself, Galen feels his cock twitch from the easy praise. “Well, since I don’t have to worry about Ilhe’s gang here, I’ve tried the gymnasium out. Sometimes it helps me sleep.”

 

Orson’s hands stroke along Galen’s chest, pressing him deeper into the mattress. “I’ll be the one to help you sleep while I’m here.”

 

Galen smiles, catching one of Orson’s earlobes between his lips. He’s missed this far more than he’s allowed himself to admit before now as he sucks gently on the plump flesh, his mind soft with affection for the stubborn, vulgar, thrilling young man in his arms.

 

“And you know I’ll always keep you safe from bastards like him,” Orson adds, swatting Galen away so that he can properly pin him to the bed and kiss him breathless until, finally, Galen manages to overpower him, forcing them both upright.

 

“You shower first and I’ll try to find the menu,” he says, lowering his eyes as Orson rises, stretching against the foot of the bed. The position, of course, thrusts Orson’s ass fully out towards Galen, and even in the semidarkness of the room, he cannot help but notice the obscene wetness trailing down onto his thighs.

 

Orson, ever vigilant, catches his eye with a wink. “Love being full of you,” he growls, taking Galen’s shaking hands and placing them on his hips.

 

Before Galen can even attempt to respond, Orson has darted off to the fresher, his laughter quickly muffled by the sound of running water.

 

Sighing, Galen turns on his nightstand’s lamp and opens the drawer most likely to contain the delivery pamphlets. Rifling through months-old filmsi sheets about non-Human diversity and designated smoking areas is hardly a strenuous task, and Galen finds his thoughts quickly diverted to Orson’s parting comment. While the image he’d presented with it is captivating for obvious reasons, his words strike a deeper need within Galen. Of course, Galen has wondered before what Orson must feel when he finishes in him without a barrier, but his insecurity has always overridden his curiosity—he’s always been too self-conscious, too wary of nosy students or errant droids catching him in such a vulnerable state.

 

There is no fear of judgement now, however. There is only Orson and the welcoming space he has created for himself here this past year—his first true privacy since boyhood. Galen smiles to himself, the menu finally in hand, looking over to the spread of his microscopy bench and the mess of his published papers. Yes, this apartment is unmistakably his, and he is more than happy, as he ever has been, to invite Orson’s lively presence into it.

 

 

+

Much as he had expected, Galen ends up finishing both of their gorba melts, barely tasting the granular yet mushy fried dough before swallowing it and reaching for his bottle of sugar brandy which, of course, does nothing to dull the overwhelming artificial flavor. Orson, naturally, is all too happy to save it from the trash compactor, leaving Galen shocked, as he ever has been, that he would be considered the responsible one between them—despite skipping meals and forgetting to sleep, he’s certainly never considered whipped cheese and styro-taffy flakes the backbone of his diet, nor is he currently consuming two dinner plate-sized pastries.

 

“I’ve always liked your appetite,” Orson says, nudging Galen’s thigh with his bare foot under the table. “But we really need to cure your aversion to dessert.”

 

Galen shakes his head, swallowing the last of his blue milk. “Both the brandy and the fried dough were terrible, Orson. Impressively so.”

 

Orson, predictably, leans across the table and pouts. “Try just the cream?”

 

Galen’s brow furrows skeptically, but he nods, darting his tongue out to taste the thick filling that Orson has prodded out with his finger. While not nearly as distasteful as its outer layer, Galen remains partial to his own choice of meal, and he is unable to suppress a laugh while he watches Orson fish out the remaining cream from his pastry with his index and middle fingers, nearly dropping the plates and cups on his way to the sink.

 

Orson tilts his head, licking his lips as he gets up to follow him. “You taste almost as good, you know.”

 

“Your lines have only grown worse this past year.”

 

Orson shrugs, rubbing his hands down to Galen’s hips. “Mm, but yours got better. Especially this one,” he says, punctuating his words with a slow, possessive grip on Galen’s ass.

 

“Fuck me against the conservator,” he moans, his back pressing against it. “Let’s crush the ugly thing.”

  
  
Galen kisses Orson instead of telling him not to break his appliances, taking his time unsnapping each of the three buttons on the neck of his tunic. He knows that Orson is far from the societal ideal of purity, and yet Galen has always been tentative in how he handles him, as though some part of him is afraid of smudging him, of snuffing out the playfulness of his laugh or his childish taste for sweets. There is a light in Orson, as sharp and bright and fragile as the light that passes through his crystal samples, and Galen does not want to dirty it with his clumsy attempts at love.

 

“Melba next door will hate me if we don’t use my room,” he finally replies, nearly panting with the need their earlier activities had failed to sate. “I have to put these in the dishwasher. You go on ahead.”

 

Orson slips out of his arms with a last squeeze to his ass, reminding Galen of his earlier thoughts. Orson will be willing to try with him, he knows—he’s even offered such in the past. But Galen had shaken his head each time, nosing his way down to take Orson into his mouth instead—a similar act, yet one quickly concealed on Galen’s end. It had sufficed then, he thinks, to clutch Orson’s pale, soft thighs between his fingers, to taste him once his throat had relaxed to accommodate him. But to feel Orson slide into him, to kiss him while he does so—surely, that would be just as unique and sweet a pleasure.

 

Galen sets the dishes down in the sink, fearing his sudden loss of confidence. He hurries into his room, fussing with the hem of his shirt while he stands awkwardly in the doorway.

 

“See something you like?” Orson purrs, the gently rounded hill of his belly rising between the valley of his hipbones, naked and waiting for Galen to join him. He glances down at Orson’s cock, thinking once more of what it would feel like inside of him, for Orson to enter his body in such a deep, immediate way.

 

“Don’t be a tease,” Orson croons, winking at Galen and stroking himself without seeming to recognize the irony of his previous statement. “C’mere.”

 

Galen inches forward, watching Orson show off until he finally drops to his knees before him, granting his cock a long, slow lick. While his boundless curiosity may define his professional career, it cannot overpower the insecurities that Ilhe’s groping had fed before Orson had punched him into the infirmary.

 

“Yeah,” Orson pants lewdly, running a hand through Galen’s hair. “Slicking it up before I ride you, huh?”

 

Galen pulls back before he can stop himself, sitting down a hand’s width away from Orson on the bed.

 

“I want you to—” Galen tries, his eyes shut tightly. Beside him, Orson is still for once, though when Galen opens his eyes, he can see the effort in his restraint. “Can we…can I take you instead?”

 

Orson’s mouth goes nearly comically slack, his eyebrows rising halfway up his forehead. Then, just as Galen had logically known he would, he pulls him close, grinning once he’s kissed him soundly. “You’re going to love it. Well, maybe not at first, but it’s—“

 

“An acquired taste?” Galen finishes wryly, earning him another kiss while Orson attempts to wrestle him out of his shirt and boxers.

 

“Do you know how to finger yourself?” Orson asks, wiggling his brows.

 

Galen lets out a noise at Orson’s bluntness, shaking his head while Orson’s hand creeps up his bare thigh.

 

Orson shudders, prodding his fingers into the softness just beneath Galen’s cock. “I won’t last if I demonstrate for you. It’s either that or I open you up myself.”

 

Galen kisses him hungrily, his thumbs brushing against Orson’s nipples.

 

“Your fingers, then. And you inside me.”

 

Orson pouts, making a little chiding sound against Galen’s jaw. “Suck the cream off of them first.”

 

Galen frowns in confusion that quickly turns to laughter once he catches sight of his own barely-eaten pastry sitting on the bed behind them. Orson locks eyes with him, shoving his entire right hand into the center, withdrawing it with a slick noise that makes Galen’s cock twitch.

 

“Go on,” Orson coos, wagging his fingers in front of Galen’s parted lips.

 

Galen lowers his eyes, taking Orson’s wrist in his hand and licking the back of it until it is free of cream. Once he grows used to the cloying taste, Galen is easily able to lose himself in the repetition of the task, licking four stripes up Orson’s palm in turn, cleaning each finger in a mimicry of how he would suck his cock. It is only once Galen opens his eyes upon reaching Orson’s thumb that he realizes that Orson has shifted slightly, retrieving the bottle of lubricant from the messy folds of their blankets. He shivers at the implication, sucking Orson’s thumb into his mouth, barely resisting the urge to stroke himself.

 

Orson runs his free hand up and down Galen’s waist, coaxing Galen into kneeling so that he can cup the flesh of his ass.

 

“Gonna feel so good,” he soothes, uncapping the bottle and squeezing a puddle of it out with the heel of his palm, half of it drenching the sheets.

 

“Let’s make sure you’re all ready for me.”

 

Galen moans, his hips rutting backwards when Orson slides a slick finger into the cleft of his ass. “Yeah, there you go. Ready to begin?”

 

Nodding, Galen opens his eyes, though he keeps Orson’s thumb firmly lodged in his mouth, the soft suction both grounding and distracting him at once.

 

“Yeah, keep sucking, just like that,” Orson murmurs, prodding into Galen with a sharp inhale when their cocks brush. “Gotta keep you relaxed.”

 

Orson works his finger into Galen, who, despite the foreignness of the feeling, instantly craves more. He whines, his lips tightening against Orson’s thumb until Orson begins to press a second finger in several moments later. The accommodating stretch becomes a sting, and though the pain takes long minutes to become a slight discomfort, eventually the motions of Orson’s fingers together inside him make him grind downwards, seeking more.

 

“There we go,” Orson says triumphantly, rewarding Galen by bending over to give his cock a long, indulgent lick. “You’re perfect. Gonna take me so well.”

 

Galen clenches around Orson’s fingers, allowing his thumb to slip out from between his lips. He smiles sheepishly at him, letting Orson withdraw his fingers and guide him onto his hands and knees. Galen has always preferred more intimate positions, but the thought of Orson inside him spurs him into pliancy.

 

“I know I’m clean. You are too, right? We don’t need a barrier if you are.”

 

Galen nods, his dazed mind somehow recalling the irritation with which Orson had waved away his offer of a barrier earlier today. Still, he decides, it is a thoughtful gesture.

 

“So fucking wet,” Orson moans, rubbing his slick thumb around Galen’s hole. “Can’t believe I’m going to feel you around me, just like this.”

 

The gentle pressure makes Galen rut backwards, too aroused to recognize just how vulnerable he is, worked open and dripping lubricant, presenting himself for Orson on all fours like a beast in heat. He grips the sheets tightly, huffing in frustration when Orson’s hand migrates to the curve of his ass, though it is quickly replaced with Orson’s equally-slick cockhead.

 

“I’m ready,” Galen pants, shifting his weight to lessen the strain on his lower body.

 

“Gotta go slow,” Orson replies just as breathlessly, the tip of his cock breaching Galen’s hole. Galen squirms and cants against the harsh sting, his toes digging into the mattress, seeking purchase. Orson shudders violently against the tightening of his body, leaning forward to steady himself, clutching the soft curves above Galen’s hips.

 

“Just relax. Breathe out for as long as you can before inhaling again. Even if it makes your belly stick out—I don’t care.”

 

Galen does as he’s told, trying to shift his center of gravity forward again while emptying his lungs and easing himself into the moment, into the thrilling new sensation of Orson slowly, carefully filling him.

 

Orson resumes his thrusting, each one becoming more erratic. “Star student. No surprise there.”

 

Galen wishes he could make a smart reply back, but he’s never quite been able to articulate his pleasure, to put into words the overflowing thoughts and feelings such intimacy never fails to bring forth in him. Instead, he dissolves into noises, letting out all the sighs and grunts and long, keening moans he keeps tucked deep within himself, allowing only Orson to hear them.

 

“So fucking _tight_. So fucking _hot_. Can’t believe I’m inside you!“ Orson babbles, his control snapping brutally after Galen sobs with need, his body squeezing around him, attempting to prevent Orson from withdrawing before he presses forward again each time.

 

“Ah—Not. Gonna. Last!” Orson shouts, punctuating each word with several thrusts of his hips before clutching Galen’s shoulders and tensing within him. His release quickly fills Galen, who climaxes during the second pulse before he can even get a hand around himself. Orson’s cock inside him had been ecstasy, he thinks faintly, but it is incomparable to being full of Orson’s seed.

 

Orson slumps forward against him, allowing Galen to do the same without losing the sensation of Orson inside of him. Though he is already half-asleep, he tilts his head back, smiling into Orson’s greedy mouth.

 

“Never fucking leaving here,” Orson grunts, resting his cheek against Galen’s back.

 

Galen takes his right hand in his own, resting it against his lips. It has none of the cream’s taste left upon it, and Galen closes his eyes despite his racing heart, his breathing slowly evening as the warm satisfaction running through his body guides him into a deep sleep.

 

 

+

When Galen wakes this time, it is to the relative darkness and quiet of the city that is present only in the earliest hours before dawn. He registers a soreness stinging his lower body, blushing when he sees the source of his discomfort belly-down on the carpet, naked and sketching blueprints onto sheets of flimsi.

 

“What time is it?”

 

Orson looks up from his work, nearly knocking over the cup of overly-sweetened caf beside him. “03:19, apparently. Why—do you have somewhere to be?”

 

When Galen doesn’t offer him a reply, Orson rises from the floor, sitting against the curve of Galen’s back. He runs a hand through Galen’s sweat-slicked hair, currently even messier than his own.

 

Galen rolls onto his belly, wincing as he shifts his weight. “What are you working on?”

 

“Thought you’d never ask.”

 

Orson turns on the lamp beside Galen’s bed, holding up a page of the filmsi that Galen blinks into coherence. How he sketched it in the near-darkness of the room is a mystery, but the meaning behind them quickly overtakes any of Galen’s other thoughts. Orson holds five of the sheets up in all, able to tell after all these years when Galen is ready to examine a new one.

 

“They’re for you,” Orson says, running a hand through his hair almost sheepishly. “I began them the day after you graduated. I wanted to design your apartment. Well, _our_ apartment.”

 

Galen does not register Orson’s words, instead focusing on the care and detail within each sketch. Orson has always had a taste for fine things, and his designs reflect as much in the floor-to-ceiling transparisteel viewports, two full-size refreshers, and the dizzying instability of the skywalk veranda.

 

“When I graduate in four years, I’m moving to Coruscant,” Orson murmurs, setting the blueprints down and taking Galen into his arms. “I’ll join the Corps of Engineers, and I’ll sell blueprints like this on the side. Take care of you, well and truly.”

 

Orson cups his face, determination and certainty sharp in his eyes. When Galen looks up to meet them, his hands begin to shake. “And then, one day soon, I’ll have this built. Just for you, Galen.”

 

“It’s beautiful, Orson.”

 

“You’re the most brilliant man in the galaxy,” Orson hums, kissing his nose. “And I never want to live without you.”

 

Without any words to scrape together into the wonder he feels, Galen clings fiercely to Orson, his eyes brimming with tears against his shoulder.

 

“Now c’mon, roll over again. I want to try something.”

 

Galen really should know better than to encourage any of Orson’s ideas after six years of his misadventures, but he’s powerless to resist, especially when Orson is already straddling his knees and running his thumbs along the curve of his ass.

 

“You’re sore and since I caused it, now you have to let me kiss it better.”

**Author's Note:**

> -This is loosely set in the same AU as “Hospitality”. The apartment blueprints that Krennic shows Galen outline the one described in that fic—specifically the veranda.  
> -“Melba next door” is a white Twi’lek who shares a first name with Melba Newell Phillips—the first doctoral student of J. Robert Oppenheimer, who Galen’s character was partially based upon. I’m hoping to write something more involved with her later on in this AU.


End file.
